


Solving the Final Problem

by SherlockianMinty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Everything's ok, Fix-It, Fluff, Implied Mystrade, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-TFP, Post-The Final Problem, Quite heavily implied but only in small chunks you can ignore if it's not your thing, Referenced John/Mary Watson, Sherlock realises things, Sweetness, but - Freeform, ish, then a lot of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 20:13:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9341384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockianMinty/pseuds/SherlockianMinty
Summary: For those who wanted a little more Johnlock in their lives. Set after the main events of TFP.Sherlock tries, and succeeds, to fix things.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oceanofmymind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceanofmymind/gifts).



> For some reason, AO3 has posted this fic twice. For those who've already bookmarked this one, I shan't delete it, but you can find the actual, polished fic on my account. Thank you, and I hope you enjoy x

Sherlock Holmes was broken. He was exhausted, his nerve shattered, his heart racing and so so close to falling apart.  
Pulling John from the well, safe at last, and hearing that his brother was the same brought tears of tired relief to his eyes. He fell to his knees in the mud beside the well, tears rolling down his cheeks to splash on the grass. But his shaking shoulders were stilled by the ever-firm hand of Doctor John Watson, wrapped in a warm blanket and holding him tight.  
“It’s ok.”  
Sherlock couldn’t find a gap in the sobs to deny him, but he knew deep down, calmed by a heartbeat, strong and alive, that it would be, soon.

 

When Euros had been taken away, John was taken back to Rosie and Sherlock himself was driven to Baker Street. He stepped out of the police car and stood on the pavement, staring at the door, its knocker still straight, and the windows of his own flat now replaced by wooden boards. He felt guilty for all of it: Euros, and his betrayal of her; all the innocent people he hadn’t been able to save; Mycroft, almost dying for John – Molly.  
Molly’s sobs still rang in his ears.  
The taxi brought him to St. Bart’s with admirable swiftness. It wasn’t the ideal place to reconcile himself with a close friend, but her shift wouldn’t end for hours and he couldn’t leave it a second longer. Sets of double doors crashed open as he ran through the warren of corridors towards her, almost falling through the entrance to the morgue itself.  
When Molly saw him, she turned away abruptly, aiming to leave as quickly as possible.  
“Molly!” She only sped up. “Molly, wait, please!”  
As his voice cracked she spun on her heel to face him again, but her look of anger and pain didn’t last long. For even as she looked at him, she could see how sad he was.  
“Would you- would you, um, like to get coffee?”  
She nodded and hung up her coat.  
The coffee shop turned out to be closed for remodelling, so they bought paper cupfuls from a machine down the hall and stood outside with them, side-by-side. Without hesitation, Sherlock started recounting the tale of the past few days to Molly. From the very beginning with John’s therapist through their own telephone call right up to rescuing John the previous night.  
She didn’t give anything away as he spoke, not even a flinch at the suggestion she might have been blown up.  
“I’m so sorry, Molly. You are one of my greatest friends, of course I knew that that would hurt you, and if I’d had any choice at all, any other way-”  
“I know, Sherlock. I believe you. Something that insane could only happen to you, and only a Holmes could be that cruel.” She sipped her coffee, looking beyond him.  
“I suppose that’s fair.” He cast his eyes to the ground.  
They were silent for a few moments, birds singing a lilting melody.  
“Say it again.” She told him.  
“I’m sorry, I can never say enough, I know, but-”  
“No.” She cut him off. “Not that, and not to me.”  
She finally looked at him, embraced him, before leaving him alone and puzzled.

 

Soon afterwards, when the renovations of 221B Baker Street had only just begun, he saw Mycroft again. They organised his schedule and clearance to visit Euros, to be something like home for her, as he’d promised. But there was a deep sadness in Mycroft’s eyes as they did so. It would take him a long time to recover from this failure in his most precious duty of protecting his siblings. He was looking thinner as well, unhealthily so, as if he’d simply forgotten to eat.  
Sherlock wanted to say something to him, anything, but- well, it had been mostly his fault.  
“How’s John?” He heard, before he could speak.  
“Well. Healthy. He’s helping me clear up Baker Street, I think he and Rosie are going to move back in, he can’t afford to keep a house anymore.” Not without Mary.  
“Oh, well, that will be excellent for both of you.”  
“What makes you say that?”  
“How is little Rosie?” Mycroft turned, pretending to peruse a bookshelf.  
“Fully functioning, as you would say. Why would it be excellent?”  
“Oh, Sherlock. Please don’t let me have almost-died for nothing.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “If you will excuse me, brother dear, I’m expecting someone.”  
“Someone?”  
“Someone.” Mycroft replied, trying to shut him up and politely shoo him from the house.  
Relenting, he opened the front door to see the figure of Lestrade, poised to knock.  
“Sherlock! What a pleasant surprise.”  
“What are you doing here, George?” He was shot a poisonous glare.  
“Well, I said I’d look after him for you, didn’t I? Here I am,” he raised a bag of groceries, “looking after him.”  
The inspector disappeared past him into the house, closing the door between them. He could have sworn that the packaging of Mycroft’s favourite cake was poking out of the supermarket bag.

 

The governor of Sherrinford prison and his wife were buried a week afterwards. There was a shadow at the back of their funeral where Sherlock Holmes stood watching the proceedings. The couple were well known and well loved, judging by the eulogies and the tears. As such it took a long time for the last mourner to leave, Sherlock at last able to stand alone before their graves.  
The loving partners were buried beside each other, festooned in vibrant flowers and the memories they carried. Sherlock himself, of course, had few memories of them, and at that moment he could only recall one. That of the hero, willing to die, willing even to kill himself to save the person he loved most in all the world. It took a great amount of love to make someone so stupid as to pull a trigger, or fall from a rooftop, for someone. He could feel the cold of a pistol against the skin of his own chin once again.  
There was a slight drizzle over his dark curls.

 

The redecoration of the flat was all but finished, John’s belongings almost all boxed up for moving.  
The first thing to greet him on his return home was Mrs. Hudson’s worried expression.  
“Back at last, dear, oh I do wish you’d bring an umbrella with you in this rain. Surely your brother won’t miss one.”  
He hung up his coat and scarf with a fond smirk. “I’m convinced he loves them more than his own parents, Mrs. Hudson. I borrowed one once as a teenager, for an experiment, and lets just say he proved his relation to my sister that day.”  
She smiled warmly at him. “You know, John was just telling me he’s packed and ready to move in.”  
“I believe so.” He approached the stairs to his flat.  
“It’ll be so nice to have the two of you back again. Oh, but what can we do about a nursery for Rosie?”  
He tried to keep his voice even as he replied: “I’m hoping we’ll have enough rooms to accommodate one all of her own.”  
Mrs. Hudson gasped as Sherlock began ascending the stairs again. He just caught sight of her grin as she marched purposefully towards what he presumed to be the telephone and a long, high-pitched conversation with Mrs. Turner, next-door.

When he nervously pushed open the door with a shaking left hand, he immediately saw John, standing with Rosie in his arms in a room which looked just the same as when John had first moved in all those years ago. Sherlock’s heart swelled as he watched the soldier wave a small flower around in front of her as she tried in vain to reach out and grab it from him.  
Rosie gurgled happily when she saw him in the doorway and gave him an upside-down grin. John at last looked up, equally happy, it seemed, to see him.  
“There you are! Here, there’s a case for us. A client came while you were out, and brought – this.” With his free hand, he pointed towards a granite statue of an elephant, spattered with blood and what appeared to be ink.  
“Fascinating.” He said, stepping forward to offer his fingers to Rosie’s eager fists.  
The two entertained her for a while in near silence, broken only by some of John’s endearing baby talk.  
“Look, John, can I talk to you?” His voice was shaking, he fought to bring it under control.  
“Yeah, of course.” The other man looked up at him.  
He adored the smile on his face, had done ever since that first delighted exclamation at his brilliance, the first person not to run from his deductions.  
“John, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you for… a very long time.” He began, interrupted by a yawn from Rosie. John began to rock her gently in his arms.  
“You mean a lot to me. Ever since we met, you’ve been special to me, unique, constantly there for me at my side. I told you as much at your wedding, that you were the best man I’d ever met and, of course, you still are.” He fiddled with his cuffs as he forced himself to continue. “When you told me I was your best friend, I was surprised. I never expected that anyone would ever call me that, let alone that it be true.” The expression on John’s face suggested he very much wanted to tell him to get to the point. “But at – at the wedding, I also told you that I loved you, more than anything in the world and, what I’m trying to say, what I’ve come to realise is…” it took a lot of courage to look back into John’s eyes, “that it’s true. I mean, I do – love you, that is – I… I love you.”  
“Yeah, I know.” John replied with a half-amused smile.  
“No, no, you don’t. Please, John, you have to understand.” He began to panic, he couldn’t do this wrong, not now. “I really love you, I love the way you make tea, the way you talk to Rosie. I love that you don’t get annoyed at my playing, even when I’m so frustrated I’m practically torturing the poor instrument. I love your bravery, and your cleverness,” John snorted, “yes, John, you may not see how good you’ve become during our cases, but I have. You’re far from just my blogger, now, I couldn’t solve half of them without you. I love that you will face up to the most dangerous people in the world, that you’ll punch senior police officers in the face, for me. I love when you stay up with me sometimes when I’m thinking.” His eyes widened. He knew John thought he didn’t notice him there, but he always did. “I – god, I loved your terrible moustache because you liked it, and I love your smile, and your laugh, and I just – I love you, John. Please, please, tell me that you understand.”  
“Of course I do, you idiot. Even Mary did, that's why she – why-” he cleared his throat. “She knew how I felt about you before even I did, maybe she guessed from the very beginning.”  
Sherlock’s brain had stalled in the middle of the sentence. “What?”  
“Well, you must-? Don’t tell me you don’t know I feel the same?” He looked concerned.  
“I had… hopes, but I didn’t ever know for certain.”  
“That great deductive mind, defeated by love once again. You take after your brother.”  
He thought about the inspector, and the cake. “I really think I do.”  
“Well anyway, you know now, yes, that’s- that.” John knew what he was avoiding. His soldier’s nerve steeled, and he couldn’t help recalling a moment not so long ago, in the grand scheme of things, when he stood before a gravestone and begged for just one thing. He matched the detective’s gaze. “I love you, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock smiled, more out of relief than anything else. And John smiled back, heavy with years of newly-recognised affection.  
“Of course, you know what this means.” John said casually.  
“What?” His brow furrowed in puzzlement.  
“You have to change Rosie.” He smirked as tears began to form in the hitherto-silent baby’s eyes and she began to cry obscenely loudly.

He pulled Sherlock down into a kiss, just a brief taste of every day and every year they would spend together, and he pressed their baby into his arms.


End file.
